Live Together, Die Alone
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: AU, Lost meets Stephen King's The Stand. Very dark. Almost every pairing mostly crazy ones though there are some normal ones, lots of deaths, and every character included in some way.
1. Armageddon

_A/N: New story. Dark story. Weird story with awkward pairings and every single character in lost used in some way if I can. Eventually there will be main character deaths. Like main main character deaths. I'm gonna say it again because I think that it's important. This story is going to be very dark. So if you don't like, don't read it.  
Also please don't confuse thsi with The Stand my other story. It's the same plot, but this one is kicked up and completely written by myself. The only reason I left the other one on is because some people enjoyed it and who am I to take it off FF and away from them?  
_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lost or The Stand in any shape or form  
**  
Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 1

Armageddon

The streets smell like sulfur and rotting flesh. The stench is overbearing, coating everything that comes in close proximity with the massacre of billions. It permeates his hair and his clothing. The odor doesn't go away; he thinks that it might have soaked through his skin because he can smell it all the time, the smell of hot burning death. The smell of hell.

A hollow wind stumbles through the street, stirring all the foul stenches into a tornado that almost knocks the air from his body. The zephyr is the only show of movement; no one is left wandering the streets, because no one is left at all.

It started less than a week ago, while he was curled up on the couch with Juliet watching some sitcom that she adored and he couldn't stand. It was interrupted by an urgent broadcast from America; a virus was sweeping the nation with flu like symptoms that resulted in death.

The cause or engineering of the virus was left undisclosed but all planes too and from America were cancelled until a later time to avoid a worldwide spread of the deadly disease. It took two days for it to reach Australia.

Working as a doctor wasn't easy during the time. Jack was immediately pulled off of surgery and moved to the emergency room since most of the doctors down there were already infected and dying. In two more days he and one other doctor were the only ones who showed up to work. They still wanted to help although there was no cure. Today his colleague passed.

The emergency level of the hospital was full of cadavers; they were stacked like dominoes in exam rooms and hallways since the morgue ran out of room. They ended up moving most of them to the cafeteria once the outbreak occurred, but after a few hours no one seemed to care anymore.

Jack now stands alone in the street, the wind playing with the sleeves of his suit jacket and the incessant dinging of the open door on his car playing at the back of his mind. He went in to work today and there was no body. Juliet went in to work today and she never returned home.

The sun is beginning to set, and in a few hours it will be dark. There's no one left to work the generators because for the past few nights they've used Roman candles to light up the house. The untouched box left underneath the kitchen sink for disasters is now almost empty, but he honestly doesn't know what to do? Was it survival of the fittest now? Take what you need by force? The last question makes his stomach sink, because he's not sure if there is anyone left in the world to fight with.

When he drove home from work that day, he found the double driveway half empty. Juliet's gas-guzzling SUV was missing. She still couldn't be at work, there couldn't be anyone left at the prison. They both contemplated even leaving the house this morning, but he had to. If someone at the hospital needed help, he wanted to be there to give it. She left in hopes of finding more people. He didn't argue with her, all they seemed to do lately was argue.

Supplies are needed, hydro went down Wednesday and the bottled water is running low. But he couldn't do anything until he found Juliet, which is why he sped all the way to the prison. His sports car squealed to a stop before the rising and falling arm on the security booth, the motion incessant like the swinging pendulum in a grandfather clock.

Inside the small booth, the security guard lies with his face pressing into the button controlling the mechanical arm. Mucus exudes from his nose and mouth seeping into the panel. His eyes are open and bloodshot, the color of his irises indefinable through the cloud of death that shrouds his eyes. Jack reaches forward and pries the ring of keys from the dead man's rigid hand, he thinks he might hear a snap, but it could be his mind playing games on him.

Jack walks up concrete stairs to the entrance finding it open and unguarded. His mind doesn't focus on anything in particular as he enters the darkness of the building. The sable brick walls allow in no light except for the few windows built high above his head. Thick beams of dying light hit the opposite wall and create a striped effect.

Using his memory, he makes it to the stairwell which is completely black. With the backlight from the hallway he finds the reflection of the railing and follows it up until he's on the fourth landing leading to the third floor. That's where Juliet's office is.

When she rushed home after she was hired as the prison psychiatrist he was doubtful. Listening to the confessions of serial killers and rapists did not bode well for her mind after what happened with her previous job working for Widmore Industries. They argued about it for a few days, but when she was adamant on taking the position he let her. Now he wishes she hadn't.

The third floor is almost identical to the first floor, the tall windows are the only source of concentrated light. Her office is a little ways down, the solid metal door adorned with the room number 815 and Dr. Burke on golden plates. Turning the handle he finds the door unlocked, but the hope he feels fades immediately when he finds her office empty.

The desk that takes up a large portion of the room is scattered with papers shuffled into in and out piles. The office chair is directed away from her desk with the backdrop of slanted blinds letting in the rays of red dying light. It reminds him that he needs to get home.

Maybe she's back at the house waiting for him; maybe she went out to get supplies like he should have. They're going to need food and water. Medical supplies as well. Jack has his first intellectual thought of the day, and makes a conscious decision to check out the medical office he knows is on the second floor before he leaves.

With one final glance back at Juliet's empty office, he turns and walks back down the hallway to the stairwell. Following the railing once again he stops after two short landings to find the second floor exit. The same brick walls greet him as he moves into another identical hallway though the second floor always held an eerie feeling for him, it's where the actual prisoners were held, though he supposes it doesn't matter now.

Jack stops for a moment, his shiny dress shoes no longer tapping against the faded linoleum. It's been a long day, that his brain hasn't even comprehended has happened yet and his mind keeps playing tricks on him. His ears fill with a banging sound, a metal against metal clanging that rings through the empty building.

Shaking his head Jack tells himself that it's just another thing that seems surreal, the matching hallways, the absence of his fiancée, the death of his parents and the entire world. He can't deal with all of it, so he doesn't acknowledge it and it represses within him and he thinks that it might be making him go crazy.

He feels the cool brick against the back of his closely shaven head as he leans against the walls that taunt him. His lungs expand as the boiling sick-scented air fills his 

lungs and the clanging echoes down the empty hallway like the moan of a tormented soul, he closes his eyes and slowly counts to five.

On the last number he opens his eyes and waits for the noise to stop but it doesn't. In fact it's more frequent now, but he also notices that it's irregular. This is not a sound a machine creates, it's random and unplanned.

Pushing away from the wall, he takes light steps so the sound of his shoes doesn't mute the clangs. Jack's strides are long and the noise becomes louder as he moves down the hallway until he comes to a barred door blocking him from entering the paddock area.

Reaching into his suit pocket he pulls out the ring of keys he took from the guard at the front gate, and begins to try each key in the hole until the proper one clicks into place. The door groans as he slides it open and enters the first row of what seems like thousands of cells rising at least five levels up.

The clanking is louder now, bouncing off the vast walls and reverberating into eternity. "Hello?" he cups his hands over his mouth and immediately the noise stops. Jack moves into the center of the jail, his head twisting around trying to find the maker of the noise.

Frantically the clanging continues savage and ceaseless. His ears hone in on the unnatural sound and he takes a left running down one of the rows that makes a large asterisk shape. "Hello?" he shouts again, his heart wildly beating as the hallway doesn't seem to end. Concrete cracked and copper colored moves underneath his feet until the slate color give away into a shock of bright red.

Jack stops breathless and stares wide-eyed at the puddle of blood pooled at his feet. A man lies on his back on the ground, a bullet hole burrowed straight through his head which spilt gallons of blood. In his left hand there is a standard issue police pistol. His body is toppled over in the doorway of an open jail cell, in the corner of the cell is the person causing all the noise.

Handcuffed to the corner bar in the cell is a girl in her mid-twenties. She's clad in the standard bright orange prison uniform, with brown curly hair falling down her shoulders. Her thin, pail arms are folded up and her face is hidden within them but when Jack lets out a gasp of surprise, her head jerks up.

"Please," her voice is raspy and weak, "Please don't leave."

With his eyes falling to the dead body lying only a few feet away from her, and then back to the girl handcuffed in place he doesn't know what to do. Her body suddenly slumps and slides towards the ground in fatigue, "please," she utters again.

Jumping over the dead body he lands on his knees beside her, "hey," he holds her slumped shoulders and moves her to lean against the back wall of the cell. Her arms stretch over her head revealing the irritation from the cuffs on her wrists. "Where are the keys?"

Her head falls to the side, her cheek soft and clammy against his hand, "pocket."

Jack nods and gently sets her back so he is free to rifle through the dead police officer's pocket. He is hesitant at first, his fingers curling in resistance, but he manages to find the cool silver key.

"I got it," he flashes it to her when she opens her eyes and quickly unlocks the shackles. Her arms are limp and he directs them down with careful movements wincing when she lets out hisses of pain. "You're okay," he places her arms tight against her body and pulls his hands away from her.

"Thank you," she pants and pushes herself to sit up straight. Her eyes open and alert, "I've been here like that for over two days."

"What happened?" Jack gestures back to the dead police officer.

"He, umm," her eyes drift to the side, and then focus back on him, "he thought he wasn't going to get sick. When he did and I didn't, he locked me up and shot himself," her shoulders rise stiffly in a shrug, "I guess he couldn't stand to see me win."

Jack watches her as the shame crosses her face at admitting she's immune to this virus, the way her light green eyes fall a shade darker, the way her plush pink lips push together then part slightly as she lets out a small sigh. His heart thumps loudly and he blames it on the excitement of finding another live human being, "there's no one left out there."

"I kind of figured," a smile hints at the corner of her lips as her hand rings around the opposite raw wrist, "no one came for two days."

A light chuckle escapes him and he directs his eyes to her injuries, "we should get that cleaned up. It could get infected."

The grin now spreads across her face, "Are you a doctor or something?"

"A spinal surgeon actually," Jack smiles as he stands, then holds out both hands to help her stand. Her hands are cool and clammy when he grasps them in his.

"I," she stops and lets out a nervous laugh, her cheeks gaining a slight blush and her eyes darting away, "I don't even know you're name."

When she's steady on her feet, he answers, "I'm Jack."

She grins again and he wonders why this doesn't feel uncomfortable, "I'm Kate."

* * *

_Next chapter - more characters are introduced. Who you ask? I'm not telling but feel free to guess because it amuses me. But it's someone you won't suspect and that's why I did it._

Next chapter of Left Behind due before Friday

Remember to review if you like, because if you took the time to read this, why not take a little more to let me know you liked it.


	2. Pressure

_A/N: Okay, so I'm sick again and possibly worse this time. And while I could entertain millions with my talk of congestion and post-nasal drip (EWW!) I won't. So thanks to those who reviewed, I really appreciate it, so much so that I'll answer the questions.  
Angst-ness is going to be a motif for the story so expect a lot of it. And a lot of everyone hooking up with everyone, because that's what you do at the end of the world. You hook up with people or you kill them.  
Walt will not be in it for a very **long** time.  
And I never have a beta. Primarily because they never get back to me quick enough and I'm a lone wolf. So everything you read is 100 Shiggity. But I concur that I am new to present tense and I have a hard time from slipping between the two. _

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 2

Pressure

The sun begins to burn the back of her neck; she imagines what her skin will look like by the time she returns to the hotel. Red and peeling, leaving the base tan she built up for the last two weeks useless. Winter in American and summer in Australia, having a hot natural tan when everyone else has to get spray-ons, it's the sort of thing that makes her friends furious.

Her feet stop walking as the realization hits her. She's not going back to America, her friends aren't there waiting for her. No one is. No one is going to drive by her on this freeway and offer her a ride, which is why she keeps moving.

The gait she had thirty minutes ago has dwindled to a slow amble. The flipflops adoring her feet are starting to hurt. Her toes can't take the pressure of gripping to the sponge like material to keep her shoes in place and she doesn't want to look but she's sure there's an ugly blister on her big toe.

Misplacing a step, her left foot turns sideways and slides off the sand-stained base causing the loss of her balance and an awkward stumble forward. "Damn it," she shouts as throbbing builds up in her ankle. When she falls to the ground at the shoulder of the road, a small cloud of dust raises from the ground in a circle around her and clogs her lungs.

Panic strikes and her stomach twists as her brown eyes grow wide with the realization. He didn't give back the inhalers. He kissed her, kicked her out of the car and didn't give back the inhalers. It's almost poetic, since she's been toying with him for almost ten years. "Whatever happens in Australia stays in Australia, right Shannon?"

The glint of the sun against the car's red paint as it plummets over the edge of the cliff is still on repeat in her mind, like one of those slow motion replays after someone scores a goal. The expensive shoe slamming down on the gas pedal and the scream of the tires. The smell of hot rubber against burning asphalt. The haunting bloodshot eyes, the pallid clammy skin, the bit of stubble growing over his usually smooth cheeks. When he talks he has trouble breathing, the disease lumping in the back of his throat and slowly asphyxiating him.

Ripping through the guardrail and propelling over the side. Metal crying in pain while the jagged mountainside forges it into a new shape. The smell of flaming leather seats and the few seconds she strides her long legs away from the tire tracks before the car explodes. The car is gone, her inhalers are gone, and he is gone. Whatever happens in Australia stays in Australia.

The sound of her feet shuffling against the ground is grating inside of her head. The heat is beginning to get to her, her mouth feels like cotton; her tongue is weighed down by some invisible force. Heaviness is building within her head, and soon she knows that she's going to have to stop walking. She also knows that when she does stop walking, she's as good as dead.

She reminds herself again that no one is coming to get her and that it's up to her to survive. Just like she always said she could, just like she dared her family to let her try. Sabrina was all for it, the first to toss her out, but he wouldn't leave her alone. He never left her alone.

Now in a flash of heat and bittersweet memories she finds herself in the hotel room they spent the better half of last week in. The airports grounded them, denying their return to America. He tries to phone his mom, tries for five hours straight, but never receives an answer. Not from his mom, not from the maids or hired help. Not even from the answering machine. The next day when he phones the automated service informs the number is no longer in service. The day after that the call doesn't even register.

She presumes that they're both going to be okay. The hotel staff and guests are dropping like flies. She has a bad experience with the power going out leaving her in the elevator with two dead bodies for half a day until he rescues her. The dull stream of light making the dust dance and the small but noticeable gust of fresh air that lets her lungs stretch.

He pries the doors open with his bare hands. In the weak light she watches in shock as his knuckles turn white, a piece of his short hair, that he always spends so much time primping, falls loose over his forehead as he moves his shoulder to take the brunt of the clamping doors. As he reaches a hand down to pull her out, with his jacket hanging from his body and the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone she thinks he looks a little like Superman.

The bed sheets are the clearest thing in her memory. A creamy off-white color with a thread count of over four hundred, they feel like silk against her skin. Every day she wakes up, it feels like a dream is wrapped around her. That is until Wednesday, when she wakes up with his arms wrapped around her. Her stomach revolts not because of what they did, but because it feels right. What happens in Australia stays in Australia.

Of course being the bitch that he thinks she is, she fights the feelings. Refuses to talk about what they did as she keeps one of the luxurious sheets ensconcing her body, protecting his eyes from seeing what they already have. Hastily her hands snatch clothing from the ground where it was so fervently discarded last night and she slams the bathroom door so hard behind her that a picture falls from the wall.

When he tries to talk to her through the door, she turns the tub's faucet on, letting the water waste down the drain but the sound drowns out his voice and her tears. They stay this way for close to three hours, she would have held out longer, but there was a groan from the piping and a shudder throughout the building as the lights burn out and the water runs dry.

She surrenders and opens the door to find him wearing the same clothes he was yesterday, only the light brown leather on his jacket is stained with oil from the elevator doors. His knees are pulled close to his chest, adding creases to his jeans that she knows cost more than a sane person would pay. He looks up at her, one hand on the side of his face and his clear blue eyes unsure.

Pulling up the strap to her tank top that keeps sliding down her arm she speaks to him for the first time since last night, "We need to get out of here."

He doesn't move from his position, he drapes his arms over his knees and gestures to the window with his head, "It's already getting dark, with no streetlights it's going to be dangerous."

So instead of leaving the hotel, they venture down to the clerk's desk which is unmanned and rifle through drawers until they find an emergency kit with a box of candles and two lighters. After a quick pit stop at the kitchen they climb the fifteen flights of stairs by candlelight. Suddenly having such a lush suite is very tiresome.

They barely converse through their makeshift meal, or as time crawls by. She sits in an armchair across from him on the couch, she doesn't want to be beside him, doesn't want to be able to reach out and touch him because it's wrong. Sabrina thought it was wrong.

Moving from the chair, she walks to the large windows that lead out to a patio. The entire city of Sydney is shrouded in night, like someone hung blackout curtains. There's not a speck of light for as far as she should be able to see.

Against her will her face contorts, eyes welling with tears and her cheeks growing hot with the flush of emotion. She turns so her back is pressing to the window and slides down with her hands covering her face. "We're going to die," she cries as he glances over his shoulder.

"Shan," he moves to her side, but is careful not to touch her, assuming that she will recoil, "We're going to be fine." He bends so his knees are digging into the soft carpet.

Before he can say another word, she flings her arms around him, hands clawing at his back as she sobs into his shoulder. His hands move up to touch her bare back where material is vacant from her halter top and the warmth flows through her just as it did the night before. She pulls back from him and watches as his eyes darken with lust. He drags his fingertips, hot as coal, down her skin and then his lips clamp over hers.

The next day when she wakes in his arms, the shame isn't prominent anymore. Sabrina is dead, their family and friends are dead, now they can finally be together. The morning is spent in jest and playful banter. In their twelve years as step-siblings, there has never been this much laughter.

But then he coughs a few times and the smile erases from her face. He grins and touches her cheek telling her not to worry about it. Then he sneezes, five times in a row, eyes glassy and skin sweating. She cries and holds him through the last night, not worrying about any disease. With him gone she's as good as dead, she never was any good at taking care of herself.

When the sun rises he's already sitting at the edge of the bed dressed in pressed clothing. He has sunglasses covering his eyes and the facial hair he's grown in the last few days stands out dark against his pale skin. "I want to go for a drive," he tells her.

So they drive down the abandoned Australian highway in the red convertible he rented when they landed in Sydney last week. The wind plays with her hair, tossing the platinum locks into her eyes 

and behind her shoulder. He laughs at her, his stature reclining into the seat, his arm hanging over the steering wheel.

He directs the car into a resting area in the shoulder of the road overlooking a canyon and shifts the gear into park. After that moment, everything scrambles into the same memory, his lips chapped against hers, the taste of sweat on his clammy skin and the harsh shove he gave her to make her fall out of the passenger's seat.

After he dives over the edge, it was her against the world again, so she starts to walk. Now she sits collapsed in the empty highway with lungs full of dust. She thinks that maybe her against the world isn't fair and she should just give in like Boone did. He never told her not too.

About to give up, Shannon takes her hand off her ankle which is swelling and notices that her airway is clearing. With a deep breathe in she looks up to the sky which is cloudless and moves to stand when a noise catches her attention. The low rumble of a car motor.

Palms digging into the sand she pushes herself to stand. In the distance a blue speck can be seen travelling down the road. Shannon smiles and hops to the edge of the shoulder where the dirt turns into pavement and madly waves her arms in the air.

It takes a few seconds for the car to get close enough to see her, but it immediately starts to slow and rolls to a perfect stop in front of her. She smiles and waits for the tinted window to roll down, revealing a petit blonde in the driver's seat. Shannon can feel the cool air conditioning slip out the window and caress her arms.

"Do you want a ride?" an Australian accent is spread thick in her speech, and she smiles broadly and juts a thumb to the passenger's seat.

"Thank you so much," Shannon places a hand on the roof of the car for support as she hops around the car. The paint is hot, but she's far from caring. She opens the door and drops into the black seat of the small car. It's nothing she would ever drive but right now she's thankful that it even exists.

The Australian girl smiles at her and shifts the car into drive. The car rises to speeds that are far over illegal. To Shannon it's almost like she's in a rush to be somewhere, "need to be somewhere?"

"Yeah," the girl's voice isn't as mirthful as before, and she drops a hand from the steering wheel to her pregnant stomach, "the hospital."

* * *

_Next Chapter - Everyone's favorite doctor and convict encounter everyone's favorite... I can't tell you because it'll ruin it. But Angst and darkness ensues. But feel free to guess for my amusement. _


	3. Run

_A/N: So this story was on the back burner for awhile. Actually it was more like in the garage with the unwanted left overs. But I always wanted to do more with it, and TimeLoopy made a request that i continue it. So hopefully I'll get a little further this time. _

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 3

Run

She doesn't know why she goes with him. She doesn't want to. Every single one of her instincts is screaming at her to get out of here. Maybe it's because he's the only other person in the world right now. Maybe it's fate. But she climbs into the car beside him in her pumpkin jumpsuit and all. The car is nicer than anything she's ever seen. It's a Porsche and she thinks it's from some sort of special series.

The seats are stretched black leather that shine and attract the sun as it plays hide and seek from behind red clouds. Weak sunlight bounces off the exterior silver paint and the reflection makes her squint as the car drives through deserted streets. She feels lightheaded and out of place. She should be in prison. She got caught and if this flu hadn't hit, she would've been in America by now serving life.

He's still wearing his suit, the jacket and all. His red striped tie is flying in the wind and he put on sunglasses to block out the heightened rays from the setting sun in the horizon. He said they were going to the hospital because it was imperative that they get medical supplies as soon as possible. She agrees with him because she has no right to object. He saved her life. But that still doesn't settle the hungry drum rumble emitting from her stomach.

The silence between them is awkward now; neither of them has talked for about five minutes. They both have reasons; her isolation left her with interactions limited to prison guards who were no less than barbaric towards her. He on the other hand just rescued an inmate with no prior background of her.

"Have you seen anyone else alive?" The question breaks free after minutes of grappling not to shatter the silence.

His jaw sets for a moment, the red glow from the sun on his face makes him look more dangerous. She contemplates if she can outrun him. He jerks his head away, hiding his expression, "No."

Her hand rummages through her hair and recoils when she finds the strands clumping and dirty. She doesn't know if she should be more wary of him. They did just meet thirty minutes ago and she shouldn't be basing her survival of an apocalypse on an attractive doctor who happened to be in the prison and saved her life.

"Why do you care about me?" she's naturally curious. It's seldom a sign of intelligence but an essential trait for criminals. She doesn't think about the consequences. She never does, she honestly doesn't know how she's lived this long or through this epidemic. Maybe Wayne finally gave her something she could use.

"What do you mean?" his eyebrows arch with question as he chances a quick glance.

"Did you save me because I was the first person you found?" It's only one of the questions that plague her.

"No. I couldn't just leave you there. You have antibodies that allowed you to live through this flu," He pauses and his hands wring against the black leather steering wheel. "No one should have to die chained up that way."

"You could have left me after you helped me. Focused on you," her voice looses strength as she realizes that his actions may be genuine. She feels guilty for doubting his interests and because she knows she's going to run.

During their entire drive he's kept the legal speed limit and obeyed all the road rules, which doesn't change as the car approaches a stop sign. Her eyes dart around quickly, looking for a place that offers shelter. Somewhere she can disappear.

He removes the shades as the sun is almost gone and looks right into her eyes. She has to stop from flinching away. "Do you want to be alone?"

She thinks he's going to berate her for constructing a plan to get away from the only other living human but instead he stops the car and sighs accepting her silence as an answer, "Me neither."

She swallows hard, thinking that she'll be desolate if he doesn't chase after her, "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"Should I be?"

"No."

"That's why."

The silence grows again. Only the muffler's silent breaths offer any real sound. She wonders if going with Jack might be good for her. To be around people who might grow to approve of her. She turns in her seat, the squeaking catches his attention and in all sincerity she asks, "What are we going to do?"

He sighs again, hands still choking the steering wheel at ten and two. "We need to get basic supplies and look for a building with an active backup generator. We'll need running water eventually, but right now I think running water is a dream."

"Then we'll need food and clothes," she points to a department store marquee sign visible a few block up, "we should get them now before it gets completely dark. If the hospital's generator isn't on we'll need flashlights to find what we need anyway."

He nods, understanding where she's coming from, but she thinks maybe he can hear her stomach protesting. Then again, as long as he doesn't realize it's because she wants to get rid of this jumpsuit before they meet more people, she doesn't care. They might not be as trusting as him and the thought of being stoned to death in the corpse filled street is making her queasy. "Let's get some supplies while we still have a decent amount of light. We should get food first, and then anything else we might need."

As if an afterthought, he jars the car, turning it into an adjacent parking lot to the store and parks across three spots. The suddenness of the actions startles her and when she's done prying her fingernails from the detailed door accents she shoots him a glare. His response is a wordless finger point to the department store.

Then she sees it. Under the metal awning where the automatic doors should be opening stands a large man in an oversized t-shirt who is pointing and staring back at them. Jack opens his door but motions for her to stay seated. She nods, as the nervous feelings build in her stomach. This would be the perfect time to run, but the window quickly closes as Jack blocks her by standing before the passenger's door.

Running is what the other man is doing, his legs pumping as fast as his frame will carry him. The bottom of his shorts flap like ship sails in the wind and his shoulder length hair is curling around his face, sweat sticking it to his skin.

"Oh my God," he yells, still barreling towards them. Without stopping he crashes into Jack like he's on an opposing sports team and swings the tall doctor in a circle off the ground. The other man is laughing with mirth that makes his eyes shine.

"Do you know him?" she questions as the doctor is still spinning.

He raises his arms in an empty-handed shrug, "I have no idea."

"Oh my God. You're really here. You're real." He tells Jack as he sets him back on the ground. He catches him straightening out his shirt and comments, "Sorry Dude, but it's been almost three days since I've seen anybody who's alive."

Jack chuckles, looking amused by the whole situation and sticks out his hand, "I'm Jack."

The man imitates his actions, "Hurley."

"Hurley," he nods, registering the name, "This is Kate."

"Hi," he reaches to take her hand and she reluctantly accepts the gesture. Her orange sleeve sticks out like a blood splatter against the neutral silver of the car. He lets go of her hand early and glances sideways at Jack, "Why is she dressed like she's from prison."

"That's not important," he blows the question off and she thinks he gives her a wink. She feels the blood rush to her cheeks and gives him a small smile.

Jack moves to the back of the car, opening the trunk and after some rustling he retrieves a flashlight the size of a spotlight, "We need to get some supplies."

* * *

She told him she didn't want to be left alone. Then an hour later she managed to sneak away from Hurley and him as they browse for anything still edible. So she's standing in the darkness of the clothing section, with a flashlight nuzzled underneath her chin as she tries to find an adequate outfit but every single pair of pants seems to be eight sizes too big.

Run. She's going to run. She's sure of that. The clothing section is closer to the front of the store than the nonparishables where she left Jack and Hurley. The plan was grab the first outfit that fit and run until she can't breathe.

She sighs as the muscles in her neck tense. Then, in the glow of the flashlight, she sees the size she needs bright and bold on a tag of tan cargo pants and quickly scoops them up like they're gold doubloons.

Cradling the pants to her chest, she runs to the nearest change room snatching a white tank top on the way. She shucks the prison jumpsuit like it's on fire and pulls on the top and pants. The pants turn out to be her size, but still too big to fit her without sliding off her hips thanks to the weight she must have lost during the two days she was abandoned.

Forcing the guilt of leaving out of her mind she focuses on the task at hand. Belt. Now she needs a belt, so she pushes the changing room door so hard that it cracks against the wall. Walking while juggling the flashlight and keeping an iron grip on the belt loops so her pants don't slide down slows her.

The plan is in motion and perfect until she takes a glance up and Jack is standing right in front of her. His presence makes her stop and in the dim light of the store she gives him what she hopes is an appeasing smile.

"Hey," she greets sheepishly, as she places more attention on the belt loops than before. "I'm sorry I left, I just had to change my clothes."

The stone expression on his face fades and he smiles at her, "It's okay," he reaches out and takes the flashlight from under her chin, "I feel the same way about my scrubs after a bad day."

His eyebrow arches at her hands clinging to the sides of her pants, and she smiles again, glad that he can't see her face going red in the dark, "I really need a belt."

"You need pants that fit."

"None of those fit."

He chuckles, then nods towards the clothing section, "Go back and double check. I'll even hold the light for you."

"Have you ever been shopping with a woman before?" her tone is threatening as she doesn't move, "We take forever to decide on everything."

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the clean floor distracts him for a moment as he moves the interrogating light away from her face to shine it down the aisle for Hurley. He's moving slower than before, but he has two large duffel bags tucked underneath his arms which balloon his figure more.

"Hey guys," he greets his voice faltering a little, "I've got the last two duffel bags."

"How many did you fill," she asks with disbelief when Hurley is upon then and she can see how large they really are.

Jack winks at her, taking one of the bags from Hurley with ease, "I've been shopping with women before," he discloses as he tosses her the flashlight, "try the layaway. We'll be waiting outside."

"Dude, this is Australia," Hurley reminds as he shifts his weight trying to figure out which is the best way to adjust to the extra weight, "It's called 'lay-by'."

* * *

_Next time - We meet up with Shannon, Claire and someone special. And then someone more special. _


	4. A Few Good Whacks

_A/N: So this chapter was totally supposed to be from Claire's point of view and at a gas station. But then I wrote it and forgot until I read my notes for this story. So I'm sorry all Claire fans, but this chapter goes to Shannon. Which you can't complain about by the way because how many stories are there now that have Shannon as a centric character?  
Also I apologize in advance if the writing is hard to read. I use the pronoun 'She' a lot. More than necessary, but each chapter us told in a different characters point of view and it didn't seem right with Shannon referring to herself as Shannon. She's narcissistic, but not royalty narcissistic. Whenever 'she' is used in a paragraph without 'Claire' in it, it's referring to Shannon. Again, sorry for the confusion. _

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 4

A Few Good Whacks

The car crawls slowly through the deserted streets as she strains her eyes to look for a gas station. She glances over to the woman who picked her up. Claire, she said her name is Claire. The pregnant woman leans against the passenger's door, her dress wrinkly and one of her hands tossed over her large stomach which rises and falls with a preset rhythm.

About half an hour from Sydney, Claire started having extremely painful contractions that came closer together. They switched places so Claire didn't have to drive, but that didn't stop the contractions from growing more frequent. Before Claire fell asleep they were only five minutes apart.

She's not sure how Claire feels. She never asked because she's got fear to preoccupy her. Fear because she doesn't know what to do with a pregnant woman. She does not want to deliver a baby.

Now, the car is almost out of fuel, the needle is dangerously close to 'f'. She doesn't know what to do because she's not from Sydney. She has no idea where the gas stations are because Boone always drove. She never bothered to learn where the hospitals are because she figured if she had an attack, Boone would be driving.

The streetlights don't turn on and the only thing keeping her from crashing into the sidewalks is the car's headlights which she thinks are starting to flicker. Without lights, it's almost impossible to tell where she is. Even if she wasn't in a foreign country she's sure she couldn't drive around L.A. with no lights and know where she's going.

For every block there are at least three dead bodies, making the air stagnant and thick with decay even though they're outside. The stench creeps into everything, her hair and her clothing all smell like day old rot. The inside of Claire's car with the windows rolled up smells like decaying flesh. The worst of it is the smell chokes her, makes her want to gag and every time she has to work harder to control her breathing.

Claire moans, her hand clutches the black material around her stomach and balls it in her fist. In a few seconds her blue eyes flutter open and she leans away from the door, "Are we in Sydney yet."

"Yeah," she answers nodding, her voice avoidant like her eyes trying not to see the bump that will be a baby in a few hours.

Claire doesn't answer, but instead cups her hands around her eyes to block out her reflection as she searches out the window, "Do you have any idea where we are?"

She shakes her head; her ankle is throbbing from repeatedly tapping the gas pedal to try to keep the car from stalling. "We need to get to a gas station."

"No," Claire disagrees, her voice tranquil, "we need to get to a hospital." She pats her stomach to accentuate this fact.

"Well, the car has no gas. So unless we find some, we're going to be walking to the hospital," her voice is regaining some of her characteristic harshness but she makes sure to keep it in check. She doesn't want to exacerbate the situation more.

"We can always take someone else's car," her fingertip hits the window with a thud as she points to a three level parking lot, "Pull over there and we can look for one."

"Do you know how to hotwire a car?" she fights to keep the sarcasm from her voice while guiding the dying car over to the curb.

"We don't have to do that," Claire fiddles with the door handle until the lock finally releases. She places a hand underneath her stomach for support and attempts to get out of the car, "Someone in that parking lot must've died with their keys either on them or in the ignition. That's how I got this one."

"You stole this?" She asks with doubt, not that Claire wouldn't steal a car. In her condition and in this situation basically all the rules are dissolved. But why would anyone steal a car this crappy. Running it at top speeds along the highway for a little more than an hour seems to have snuffed it out. Or it contracted the virus.

Claire struggles to get on her feet, with one hand hooking around the car roof but she doesn't seem able to make it out of the compact car, "I was visiting a psychic who lives in the boonies." Her breath is huffing as she surrenders and sits back down in the car, "It's a very long and useless story now."

"Look," She calls Claire's attention because the other woman is having around round of contractions. "Why don't you stay here and I'll go check the main level for a car, okay?" She tries to sound composed and open to suggestions, but she just wants to find a car already to get to a hospital.

Claire vehemently nods, her teeth clenched as she agrees wordlessly to the plan. She gestures to the back seat, where a flashlight lies toppled over on the floor.

Without a word, she opens the back door retrieving the flashlight and turning it on. A vibrant beam greets her and she cracks a small, thankful smile.

"Shannon," Claire calls just as she's ready to bolt into the concrete lot. Reluctantly she hops back, waiting to hear the pregnant woman's qualms or last minute advice. Like, "Don't touch the dying people." Or, "If it looks like a zombie, run!" It's nothing she hasn't heard before from Boone who thought that after the epidemic anything was possible.

"Shannon," Claire smiles again and places her clammy hand on her arm. Here it comes. "Thank you so much."

She blinks once and as their eyes meet, she knows it's sincere. She manages a smile, one not completely goofy but not sardonic either, "You're welcome Claire." She pats the woman's hand once, "Just try to take it easy. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Claire nods, eyes flinching closed with another contraction. They're closer now than before, only three minutes.

Instead of worrying about the prospect of sudden midwifery, she rushes eyes open and ready for whatever the dark looming structure has for her. Which happens to be over twenty rows of cars. They lie lifeless as far as the flashlight will shine and soon Claire in the car is a speck in the back of her mind as she travels looking for a person dead inside one the cars.

But row after row all of the cars are locked up tight and she begins to doubt this idea. It would be more useful at a car dealership where they could just break a window and steal keys. Of course there would be a lot more dead bodies in the building at different levels of decomposition and without the wind moving the air around it would definitely give her an attack.

She holds the flashlight steady as the echo of her footsteps becomes more eerie the deeper she gets into the structure. Her ankle takes some of her fear away. It's still swollen but it doesn't hurt to walk on as much as she thought. But she is growing a pronounced limp. When they make it to the hospital, maybe the doctor can have a look at it for her. She won't even let herself grasp the fact that there's a good chance there's no doctors left.

A familiar boom comes from outside, "perfect." She acknowledges the thunder with the dirtiest look and begins to drag her bad foot across the floor. But over the sound of a storm and her almost sole-less shoes dragging over the concrete she hears rustling, like a coat.

"Hello," she calls before the millions of reasons pop into her head not to.

The rustling immediately stops and her inhalations become wheezy because of her anxiety. Another roll of thunder hits outside as she stays frozen in same position. Her lungs begin to burn and her ankle throbs, she can feel the sweat bead on her face against the thick layer of foundation she put on this morning for Boone.

"Hey," a voice calls out to her in the darkness. She can tell it's not Claire and it makes her heart thump almost as loud as the thunder. She defenseless except for the flashlight which she could probably use for a few good whacks, but it wouldn't do that much damage.

On instinct, she shines the light into the back corner of the complex to reveal a man. He's short but stocky with his hair dyed blonde and more than two days growth on his face. He's wearing a striped hoodie and a pair of baggy pants.

He grins at her, the kind of grin that the Cheshire cat always wore. Broad and bright and just awkward enough to make the wearer look mad. He takes a step towards her, but she immediately compensates it by backing up, "Don't." It's not threatening and she can't weld the flashlight like a bludgeon because then she won't be able to see him.

"Hey," he speaks again, his grin fades into an expression of confusion, "I'm not going to hurt you." He has a British accent and his hands in the air in submission. He looks like a doe caught in a pair of headlights, "Please, I haven't seen a moving person in three days."

"You're not going to hurt me?" Her voice is young and soft against her will. She can't keep the overemotional shakiness out of her speech. Her knees bend to elevate the force off her ankle. She hopes she can run if she needs too.

He laughs jovially and experiments by taking a step forward. He smiles apparently enthused by her not moving backwards again. "Luv, you're the first person I've seen in three days. Why would I hurt you?"

"Because some people are just creeps," she feels eight years old, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her fist grows hard around the stalk of the flashlight.

Understanding, he nods, his face serious, his large mouth now a small 'o' in his comprehension. His hands are still, the empty palms facing her and he's getting so close that she can see crease lines. "I can guarantee you, that I, under no instance, am a creep." He pauses his steps within an arm's length of her, "Although I am guilty of loving the song."

She bites her bottom lip, praying that the tears will go away before he can see them. Boone always told her that she was devoid of street smarts and if this man sees her tears, he's going to know how weak she is. She harshly swallows and takes a noisy breath in, "Do you have a car?"

"Me?" he asks, bringing his fingers to his chest like he's touched she thought of him, "No Luv. I came here to find one."

Claire in the car floods back into her mind and she doesn't care if this guy wants to kill her or not, "I need one quick."

He points a stout finger forward, indicating over her shoulder, "I think I saw one three down and two rows over. But it's a minivan."

She's moving before he can even finishes his sentence, "That's fine." Her right foot barely touches the ground before rising but the swelling in her ankle still stings. Before she's at the van, her gait is a limp.

"Something wrong with your leg?" He's behind her as she presses her face to the window to peer inside the car.

Relief floods her when she sees the silver keys reflecting the beam from the flashlight. She ignores his inquiry; they've already wasted enough time with pleasantries. She opens up the door and leans over the driver's seat, turning the keys in the ignition. The van jumps to life without a hitch and she almost bounces with glee.

"Where are you getting off to in such a hurry," he questions as his hand circles the door frame. In the glow of the flashlight she can see his nails are covered in black nail polish that's starting to chip away.

She's leaning because of her ankle, but she's a few inches taller than him which helps ease the intimidation away. "Listen, there's a girl in a car out there who's extremely close to having a baby," she doesn't slow the speed of her speech when his eyes get wide.

"I have to get her to a hospital because I can't deliver her baby the same day I lost Boone," her voice falters and her vision becomes blurry, "I won't."

"Okay," he nods, his hands hovering just above her shoulders, "It's okay."

"No it's not," she mutters as she uses the palm of her hand to wipe a tear off of her cheek.

"Let's get your friend," he suggests still not touching her, "I'll drive. Can you make it to the passenger's seat?"

She puts a little pressure on her ankle and finds that it doesn't give, "Yeah."

Her hands slap against the hood of the black vehicle as she uses it for support while hopping across the concrete. A cold wind hits her from the speck of an entrance and she's knows it's going to rain soon.

She's going to tell him to hurry, but as she's buckling her seat belt he's already reversing in a wild arch and before she can send him an approving look they're already shooting down the ramp towards the street.

Tugging on the man's sweater, she points to the car that blends into the other abandoned vehicles on the street and while doing so, the first drop of rain falls.

Claire's still in the passenger's seat, her blonde hair catches the headlights but the rest of her almost blends into the car interior. He double parks the van next to the car leaving it idling as they both wrench the doors open and rush to Claire's aid. "Claire," she bangs on the windshield barely rousing the pregnant woman from a labor pain.

"Claire," she calls again as the man beats her to the door. He pulls at it with such force that it creaks when it can't move any further. This catches Claire's attention and between carefully exhalations she questions, "Who are you."

"It's okay," She hobbles into Claire's view from behind him, "He's going to take us to the hospital."

"Who is he?" Claire groans and arches her back to gain some composure.

He Cheshire grins again and sticks out his hand, "I'm Charlie, I'll be busing you to the hospital."

Without hesitation she places her hand in his, still never moving the hand clutching at her stomach, "Let's get going then."

As Charlie and her help Claire from the car, the rain starts to fall in a mild pattern. Hard enough just to make her wish she had a coat. Claire places an arm around their necks but the weight adds more pressure on her ankle that she can't bypass.

She ends up on her butt on the ground and crying out in pain. She can fell her pulse pound in her temples as her breaths become wheezy again.

Charlie points at her while still supporting Claire, "Stay there—"

"Shannon," Claire mumbles as her spare hand crushes his sweater.

"Stay there, Shannon. I'm going to go load Claire and I'll come back for you." But stops dead in his tracks when he turns around. His grip loosens a little on Claire, but when her nails drill into his shoulder harder he tightens his arm around her back.

"What is it," she asks from the ground, unable to see past the shadows of their bodies. She opens her mouth to ask again, but between the dancing raindrops she sees a spark of fire then smoke churn into the air.

"Well," the man drawls, "Isn't this a nice end of the world party?"

* * *

_Next Chapter - Someone dies! And it's someone who's been introduced (which includes mysterious smoking man whom I'm sure you all know who he is already) Also three other forgotten characters are introduced! One of them MAJOR! So have fun and let me know your guesses!!_


	5. Second

_A/N: Hey guys, once again thanks for reading and reviewing. I'm so glad than so many people appreciate the darkness of this fic. I've finally narrowed down where all the characters belong and who will be remaining main characters. The main six characters will fully be disclosed by chapter ten. In case you haven't noticed by now, I've decided to take a little more from Lost, as I'm doing character centric chapters. So whoever the centric character is will be known throughout the chapter as the proper pronoun. Like Shannon was last chapter 'she' and so forth. If this is confusing I can start putting the name of the centric character under the title. Otherwise thanks for bearing with me and please enjoy!_

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 5

Second

"We have to be extremely careful. I mean not a freaking step out of place." The doctor rambles on about some teeny hole in one of the fuel lines that's pushing through a wall. He's screaming about the stupid medical personal who decided to take the hospital's temperature into their own hands by punching holes into flammable fuel valves.

He sighs because it's only one hole the size of a pinprick and you can't even hear the gas escaping into the air. Bodies litter the emergency room. Stacks of them on tables and counters, piles on the floor, they even block the doorways and all he can think of is how that's a fire violation. He wonders how the guy can smell the gas but not the decay around him.

The doctor, not Jack. Arzt, he told them to call him Dr. Arzt, even though he's only a high school science teacher. He complained about never getting the proper respect and said that he spent the last three days dragging his 'bitch of an ex-wife' to the hospital when he knew she was going to die.

Jack is off to the side prodding an Asian woman who Arzt was yelling at when they arrived. Blood covers the woman and Jack keeps trying to examine her, but she keeps swatting his hand away and protesting in an unknown language. Kate leans over Jack's shoulder with a disapproving expression on her face. She keeps telling Jack to give the woman a break and he keeps telling her she's not a doctor.

When he looks up, Arzt is still yelling and gesturing at the white hose in the wall and Jack is moving away from the Asian woman, Kate replacing his jabs with soft words. Jack catches his eye and decides to approach him, with an empty-handed shrug and a smile.

He doesn't know about those two. The two he met outside of the department store. He remembers Kate dressed in the prison jumpsuit. It had numbers on it and everything, but Jack blows it off every time he asks about it. He wonders if they're an item, if Jack rescued her from the jail because she's his lady. They act all cute around each other, like they've known each other for years. Like when she came back to the car from the department store, he handed her a box of saltine crackers and told her they would settle her stomach.

Even though Jack does vouch for her, it doesn't mean he has to trust her.

"How's it going Dude?" he points back at the Asian woman sitting on a gurney. She's now looking at Kate, not protesting but her face is stoic.

Jack chuckles and wipes his hands on his pants, "She said I have lousy bedside manner."

"You morons aren't listening to me," Arzt yells slamming his foot down on the ground like a two-year-old having a tantrum in a toy store.

He's had enough, "Maybe you shouldn't be banging your foot on the ground. Isn't that gas line temperamental?" He feels Jack clap a hand on his shoulder and laugh.

Arzt narrows his eyes and turns on the spot back to meditating about the gas line. He wonders what the guy's problem is, but then Kate is beside him, her hands stuffed in the pockets of the oversized pants she chose to keep. He knows all about it, Jack told him in the car and how it was important to make sure people felt as normal as possible in situations like this in order to avoid shock. Which is why they waited while she found an extra pair of pants and a belt in the lay-by area and why Jack had the crackers read for her.

"Her name is Sun," Kate nods towards the woman who curls her hand against her chest and stares at the empty wall across the corridor. "And she's not hurt."

"Then why is she covered in blood?" Jack questions, accepting the hidden invitation to quarrel.

Kate shrugs, "Maybe she lost someone in a car accident or something. We won't really know for sure until we find someone who speaks her language."

"Well," Jack sighs and rubs the back of his neck, taking in the horrific atmosphere of the hospital and grimaces like for a second he smells the rot they're all trying desperately to ignore. "We should try to get as many supplies as we can."

"I've already got everything in my van," Arzt yells his head angles to the side and he takes his fingers to a tear in his shirt.

Retaining his demeanor, Jack turns to the other doctor, "I know Arzt, I just wan to make sure there's nothing we missed. Anything can be useful in a time like this."

"You won't find anything."

"I might. Even if we leave one thing behind, we might need it in the future and not be able to save someone because of it."

The sound of material ripping stops and Arzt looks up, the smudges of ash on his face appear more contrasted in the glow of the flashlight that he nestled between his legs, "Name one thing and I guarantee I already got it."

Jack doesn't miss a beat, "Asthma inhalers."

A few seconds of silence follows where he's sure he can hear the small hiss of gas leaking through the room, but it might be because he's straining his ears to do so.

"I'm trying to save us here," Arzt finally protests shining the flashlight underneath his chin like he's telling a campfire story.

"So am I," Jack turns away from the conversation and back to him and Kate. "We need to find more," he glances over his shoulder at Arzt, who mumbles curses as he ties a bow around the line while clamping the flashlight between his legs, "obscure medical items. Things that might be useful if we meet other people, like asthma inhalers and insulin shots."

Kate nods as she relaxes her body against the nurses' station, "So what's the plan?"

"I want to go see what Arzt has got so far," Jack lowers his voice so he doesn't offend the lesser doctor, "I also want to check out the drug lockup and supplies to make sure we have enough of everything."

"All right, but Dude, that sounds like you're doing most of the work," he chuckles because he knows this isn't a plan, it's a work load. He doesn't mind doing his fair share, but they're in a rundown hospital, with bodies everywhere and only emergency lights buzzing in and out. It's the general setup of a scary movie.

Jack shares his laugh, but quickly recovers to continue delegating the tasks, "I need you and Kate to check upstairs in the ICU for any important drugs."

"How will we know which ones to get?"

"I'll write you a list of the main ones to look out for. You'll also want to get a couple of extra IV bags and look for a couple of bags to carry the stuff in."

He's not too keen on the idea of going upstairs to unmanned territory with a woman he's known for little more than an hour who may or may not be a murderer. There's another thing that's bothering him too. He clears his throat catching the good doctor's attention, "There's not going to be any like blood or anything. I mean I'm not going to have to touch bags of it, right?"

Jack smiles at him, seemingly understanding at least one of his dilemmas, "I don't think so Hurley. The bags of blood should be in a fridge. Everything you're looking for is going to be on a cart or in a lock up area." He steps forward, handing him a key ring with at least ten keys on it. "That one," he points to a rounded, silver one, "will open the locks."

"What about Sun," Kate points towards the woman who has not moved an inch since their less than appropriate introductions with her.

"I'll watch out for her. I'll take her with me."

Kate laughs with amusement almost shining in her eyes, "Jack, I don't think she likes you very much."

He leans in, playing off of her mood, and darts his eyes in the direction that all the swears are coming from, "Would you rather that I leave her with Arzt?"

* * *

"So what were you doing in Australia?" Kate carefully places five empty IV bags in a blue gym bag between boxes and vials of drugs so there is less chance of damage occurring.

"Nothing," he answers almost a little too quickly. She must know how he feels about her. By the way he refused to talk in the stairwell and only mumbled directions from the list in the lockup. He feels like he's in an interrogation. "I mean, just—like, visiting."

As she zips up the bag, her smile falters then grows rueful, "It's okay if you don't trust me Hurley. I understand."

He knows what his mother would say. Something along the lines of 'Hugo, you shouldn't trust when you have proof that the person is bad.' But at some point she did tell him to trust his heart. And the way that Kate spoke made it sink a little with shame. Shame for not trusting a convict.

"It's just that I don't know you," he picks up two of the three bags. They're not as heavy or as big as the bags they filled with looted goods from the department store.

"I can't tell you what I did."

Her deadpan nature surprises him, "Can you give me a hint?"

Kate looks up, her eyelids drooping because he's being irksome but she gives him some slack, "Let's just say that I did a very bad thing but I didn't do it because I'm bad."

"That makes no sense."

"It's all you're getting."

"Well then," he holds the door open for her as she ducks under his arm, "What about you and Jack?"

"What about me and Jack?" She's talking to him over her shoulder as she hikes the straps of the bag further up her arm.

"Is are you and him—" He stops talking as they make it back to the nurses' station in the ICU. The emergency lights are hanging around the circular desk like a blinking halo lighting up the falling dust particles. It hardly makes him notice the dozens of bodies wrapped in bags and white sheets.

But he does notice the woman standing on the top of the counter. The light outlines her boney body, her arms and legs make her look like a scarecrow and her frizzy hair looks like straw. Her head tilts up slowly, almost mechanically and as she focuses on them it's the first time he sees the gun. "Ou est Alex?"

He doesn't move his body an inch. But his eyes start to slide towards Kate and by her stance he can tell that she's seen the gun too. "Ou est Alex?" The woman asks with more force, her whole body jutting forward.

"What is she asking?" he whispers the sound of his voice equal to the sound of a delicate exhalation.

Kate doesn't answer, only purses her lips until they're a tight white and then swallows in silence.

"Je demanderai vous encore une fois," her voice is creaky as she raises the rifle to her shoulder so the aim is against her eye.

"Whoa," he holds up his arms, waving them madly so she might see that he's no harm to her.

"Ou est Alex?" she said something about a demand before but this sounds like the demand. He doesn't know what she's asking. He doesn't know any Alex.

"Who's Alex?" he screams as her hand goes to the trigger.

The lights flash as her finger twitches and the gun booms angrily in her hands. He feels something wet soak into his t-shirt and the sound of Kate yelping. His chest grows tight as his eyebrows fix into an expression of confusion as another boom blasts out of the gun, though this time it's not as loud.

There's a sharp pain in his head, but it only hurts for a se…

* * *

_Next Chapter - Someone dies. Someone else dies (but it's not as important). Someone else is AWOL. And something exciting happens at the end. Plus REUNIONS!  
_


	6. Memory

_A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I'm glad that everyone has remained calm after Hurley's death. But I'm sure not everyone will take this chapter's deaths with the same grace. So I apologize if I killed your favorite character, but it was necessary for my storyline. Also this chapter is almost double the length of a normal chapter, because I wanted to get everything in. I have a theory that the three most shocking things that can happen in anything are a baby, a gun and an explosion. So prepared to be shocked!_

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 6

Memory

"You're going to be okay, Luv."

The minivan's wheels howl as they hit the water puddling around a full sewage vent. The aquaplaning causes the van to jerk to the side and climb the curb until it stops with one tire on worn concrete leading to the A&E entrance. The lights flicker inside the building as a thunderous sound resonates over the sheet of falling rain. He thinks it must be the thunder although it sounds a little more metallic and resonating.

"God," Claire groans, her hands transforming into claws, gripping into anything in order to alleviate the pain.

Shannon, the poor girl who already blew out her ankle may end up losing a hand too, because she's the only one brave enough to give more than verbal comfort to the writhing pregnant woman. "Claire," her voice is raspy from the pain he supposes, "We're here, Claire."

"And there's still lights and everything," he points out the window to the grim looking building and another boom larger than thunder rings out. It sets a very Hitchcockian suspense what with the group of wandering travelers and the storm and the big empty building that has a morgue.

"Well ain't that the cherry on top," Sawyer states with sarcasm as thick as his accent. He's reclining sideways in the front seat with his back against the passenger's door and hasn't done anything since he threw Shannon into the back seat at the lot and called shotgun.

He ignores the other man as he pulls the parking brake into position and gets ready to brace the flooding rain, "Let's get you inside."

As soon as he cracks the door, it's like someone threw a bucket in his face. He gets soaked to the bone within a second and is ripping open the back door before Sawyer moves an inch. "Come on Luv," he reaches out his hand and braces himself for the broken bones he may end up with.

Claire takes his hand, but doesn't squeeze as she has a little less than two minutes before her next contraction will hit. But she doesn't let go of the other girl's hand, "Shannon," Claire pulls her, "come on."

"Get Charlie and Sawyer to help you in first," her eyes fall to her foot. It's colored a beaten black and blue and so swollen that it doesn't even look like she has an ankle anymore.

"Teacup," the passenger's door slams and Sawyer too is out in the rain, "If you can handle Little Momma, I can get her inside." His hand balls into a fist that he uses to knock on the window. "Let's go."

When she scoffs and turns her attention back to Claire, telling him to get her inside, Sawyer shrugs and leans against the sliding doors, his plaid button up shirt blocking Shannon's window with his hands cupped around the end of the cigarette he's trying to light.

Shannon slams a palm into the window jolting Sawyer back, "You can't smoke."

Sawyer's face is level with hers as he is bent at the waste ready to argue that fact with her. Rain streams down the sides of his face making his eyes squint, "I know I can't smoke inside, Princess, that's why I'm lighting up out here."

"No, if you're going to help me," she pauses her eyes turning back to her ankle, "you can't smoke."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I have asthma, okay?"

"What kind of asthma?" he pips up though it's not his place. Once they get Claire settled, he can go off and look for what Shannon needs.

"Really bad asthma," her blonde hair unhinges from behind her ears to hide her face. It makes her look ashamed.

"Jesus Christ, ain't there a healthy girl left in the world," Sawyer throws down his newly lit cigarette into the puddle and stomps it out anyway.

* * *

Inside they meet a pair of doctors, although one of them looks factory faulty and immediately tells him about the hole in the wall that will end the world. Because of this, he shifts Claire's weight to the other doctor, the one with concern on his face for the pregnant girl instead of the broken wall. The better doctor also notices Sawyer supporting Shannon and quickly undoes his tie and throws it at the hobbling couple.

"Tie that as tight as you can around her ankle," those are the only words he utters to them as he works a web of questions to Claire while dragging her down the hall. The other doctor is screaming about the bloody hole and how all the movement is unnecessary and something about patching the hole with the bottom hem of his shirt.

"Good thing you didn't smoke inside," Shannon mutters to Sawyer, who places the red-striped tie over his shoulder, while his arm is still wrapped around her back and his hand gripping her thin wrist.

Before he has time to comprehend if Shannon is trying to instigate a fight or a flirt, the other doctor, Art or something, explodes that if Sawyer did smoke in here, they would be picking up body parts right now. All three of them ignore him and Sawyer moves Shannon to a rolling stool by the nurses' station. Then briefly notices an Asian woman covered in blood a little down the hallway and mumbles, "not one damn woman."

He turns away from them, because he doesn't need to see the following dialogue between the two of them that will be ninety percent complaints, because if anything, he's knows they're both complainers. He also leaves because Art's addlebrained rambles are reminding him of science classes in primary school. Maybe he leaves because he's worried about Claire, because someone has to be. Even in the throes of labor she was nothing but considerate to him and all smiles. Her smile is cute and always reaches her eyes like every moment is the best and happiest moment of her life.

So he ambles over to the hallway that the good doctor and Claire disappeared down, walking past the catatonic Asian woman who doesn't even blink at his movement. The lights sputter above him while he ignores the smudges of blood here and there and the over abundance of flies that fly kamikaze style at his eyes.

The walls grow closer, at least he thinks they do, white sheet sand black bags lie like dominoes and the green wall tiles grow colder as he touches them for balance. The lights dim, staying at least three shades darker than he's used to, but through windows on two swinging doors, he sees the doctor, still daper in his three piece suit minus the tie. He's holding something wrapped up in a shirt from a blue set of scrubs.

He pushes the door which isn't easy because there's a body blocking it from the other side, but the sickening sound of wet flesh scraping against stone allows him entrance into the room. The doctor holds the infant like a mechanical process. He's holding it proper, but not reacting the way one usually does around babies, what with the cooing and the coddling. What's disconcerting is his idle stare at Claire.

"Must be a bo—"

At the sound of his voice, the doctor starts and flings the baby into his arms, "Here."

"He's not mine," he replies shifting his arms until the wrinkly newborn stops fussing.

Before he can add more, he looks at Claire, whose skin has gone from a flawless China doll pale to almost clear with an undertone of yellow and covered in a thick sheen of sweat. She hardly looks the same because her neck and her face are swollen, possibly still swelling and turning an odd eggplant color. Red tinted mucus exudes from her nose and her chest heaves like she's a beached whale.

"Help her," he demands as he places the baby in an empty, red basin by the door, tucking the scrubs around it and making sure it's comfortable.

The doctor blinks three times, not naturally, almost like his eyelids are having spasms, "I can't."

"Of course you can," Her hair feels like straw as he tries to smooth it away from her bloated face, she makes a weak squeaking sound and he smiles down at her, "You're going to be okay Luv."

"She's already in the final stage."

Her eyes are no longer a bright shimmering blue, but instead look to be covered by blinding gray lenses. He looks away from her, to the doctor, "What do you mean?" He already knows what he means.

"The baby is immune," the doctor picks up one of her hands, literally covered in a layer of sweat and mucus discharge, "the baby was keeping her alive."

"I'm so sorry Luv," he strokes a hand down what he thinks is the side of her face as it grows darker in color until the swelling is completely black.

"Charlie," her voice is void of human qualities. It sounds more like the backtalk from a recently used water cooler as she's drowning in her own bodily fluids but he can still make out her accent.

He grabs her other hand and tries not to let the tears burning in his eyes break free, "I'll take care of it, Claire." Leaning forward, he places a gentle kiss on her clammy forehead.

The irises of her eyes lighten until they blend in with her corneas, deep in her throat a gurgle raises, "she took my baby." Then there's only the tinkle of flashing lights in an empty room.

"I'm sorry," the doctor offers after looking at his watch perhaps out of habit.

He shakes his head, warm tears slide fat and slick down the side of his face like blood drops, "I met her about an hour ago." He sniffles and wipes his leaky nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, "she was in so much pain, but she still smiled at me like she was sincerely happy to meet me. She called me 'Chalee'. I liked that."

The doctor offers a nod and a sober hand on his shoulder as comfort before he turns around. His dress shoes click once on the tile floor, "The baby is gone."

"What?" He's ripping at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve to get rid of the tears.

"The baby," the doctor shoots past the empty basin and jumps over the body bag like it's a hurdle on an Olympic track.

He's not far behind, but lacks the strength to run because he can't feel his sneakers hit the ground. He can't feel himself breath and he doesn't recall how he ends up back at the nurses' station again but everything is reborn in a grayer shade.

Sawyer is kneeling before Shannon, one hand covering her whole foot while the other steadily works at wrapping the tie around her ankle. Her hand rests on his shoulder and she leans over slightly because the pressure of his wrapping hand jerks the stool backwards. The Asian woman is still performing her living statue act and Art is now completely eyelevel with the gas break.

"Did any of you take the baby?"

Everyone save for the Asian woman stop their actions and look up to him, Art even shuts his mouth for a second to hear him out. A beat passes and Shannon's hand leaves Sawyer's shoulder.

"Doc, I think you've been smelling too much of Funbag's gas over there," Sawyer juts a thumb over his shoulder at Art who gives razor-edged glare to the back of the Southerner's head.

Shannon, however, seems to be cluing in, "Where's Claire."

"Claire didn't make it," he answers before the doctor opens his mouth. He wants to call Shannon 'Luv' to ease the blow, but it doesn't seem to give the proper respect to Claire now.

"What," she breathes out the word in a gasp and as compensation chokes in a fractured air and coughs.

"Are you—"

"She's got asthma," Sawyer answers the doctor for her as she coughs and wheezes until her face looks like a cherry tomato.

He wonders if all the women will turn into vegetables. If what Sawyer said about them all being damaged was true. Maybe no one will be able to have babies. Maybe they'll get pregnant and have them and then die like Claire did. Maybe she was just a test drive for the disease.

"Try to breathe through your nose."

"Well ain't that good advice."

"She just needs to do it for a few minutes longer. A few of my friends went off to get asthma inhalers and other supplies before you arrived," The doctor stares at her and in between words he accentuates by breathing loudly through his nose.

"Claire's dead and the baby's gone," He screams out to the room that seems to have forgotten that she died. She died five minutes ago and no one cares. No one bloody cares that her baby is missing. Maybe because it doesn't have a bloody mother to get back to. He wants to shout all this stuff until his face matches the same hue of red Shannon has managed but instead he says, "Fuck."

His screaming tantrum and maybe his words upset Shannon more who begins to choke again. The doctor screams over his shoulder, "Not now, Charlie."

"She died because of that virus. The baby was immune. She wasn't. She's bloody dead." He keeps going, maybe because they want him to stop. Maybe it's because Shannon feels the same general emotions that Claire did before she died and in some sick way it appeases him.

Sawyer is on his feet before Jack, his body is lengthy and towers over, but the way he moves isn't with hurry or intent it's more relaxed, maybe even compassionate. "I know you're angry Teacup," he stops a little more than five feet away, "But we don't need anybody else dying today."

The statement hits him and as he looks back at Shannon, she's red-faced again with white tears flooding from her eyes and her fist curled with white knuckles scratching at her chest because she can't catch her breath. He nods to Sawyer, understanding the man's aim but doesn't apologize. Not because he's not ready, but because he shouldn't have to.

While one doctor manages to talk Shannon down and get her breathing under control, the other's rants grow in volume until he's screaming obscenities and emphatically gesturing to the pipe. Sawyer, who is a few feet away from Art, is about the either talk or knock some sense into him, when a resounding slamming and then the sudden rush of the stairwell door being flung open with force.

Down the corridor, he can see that it's a woman, with dark hair and she's running towards them with the same speed Jack used in the hallway. As she approaches, bright splotches of red decorate her clothing and more than half of her face and neck.

Sawyer is the next person to see her, and in reaction to seeing the splatters he draws a revolver from the back of his jeans and aims it directly at her, "There can't be one God damn normal woman?" he yells in frustration as his finger dances against the trigger.

He never even gave a thought to the fact that Sawyer could have been armed when they allowed him to join their troop. He doesn't feel shocked or threatened, he just stands back like he's watching a play.

"Jack," the woman yells, her shoes hitting the edge of a body and her footing stumbles.

At the echo of the name, the doctor, Jack apparently, furrows his brows and leaves Shannon who is gaining color back in her face. He stands at the end of the hallway not even noticing Sawyer's gun because his eyes fixate on the girl. Then he notices the spatters and he's running to meet her.

He thinks they might crash into each other and the comedy of the situation escapes him. Sawyer still has his gun drawn because he probably does want to shoot something. And unexpectedly the one who lays into him is Art who's vocabulary only contains swear words, the gruesome conclusions of experiments involving gas and guns, and put downs.

"What happened," Jack questions while practically manhandling the woman, turning her head this way and that trying to find the injury resulting in all the blood as she's sputtering words about a French gun or something. He feels like he's in a low budget film or the third wheel.

"Kate," his hands snap onto her shoulders and thrust her an arm lengths out so he can check her eyes whole she's still rambling like Art gave her lessons. "Slow down. Are you hurt? Where's Hurley."

"He's dead," she's trying to use his grip on her to push him down the hall, like the reverse of an ox pulling a plow. "She shot him in the chest and in the head and I ran. We need to leave because she's coming. She's coming Jack and we need to leave."

"Kate, just sl—"

"No," the empty hallway amplifies her voice and she gives Jack a hard, extremely unfeminine push to his chest to get him away from her. But she doesn't move, "Now, Jack," cracks begin to appear in her blood covered expression and she sobs, "Now."

"Okay," he nods and in an audacious move, he manages to pull her back to him in a makeshift hug, "Okay." When they make it back to the nurses' station her head is still tucked against his shoulder when he announces, "We need to leave."

"Finally," Art throws his hands on the air in mock praise, "I've only been saying that for two hours."

"Now hold on a minute here Hoss," Sawyer, with his gun securely tucked back into the band of his jeans moves up to protest the change of setting, "We all gotta leave because Lady Macbeth says so. You need to explain what the hell happened to Claire. Where the hell is her kid?" he turns back to Shannon who's recovering and only shaking as she takes inhalations. "Shannon needs the inhalers too."

"Kate, did you get the inhalers?"

She doesn't answer, her eyes are blank, like he's sure his are. She merely stands as he is, the rush of getting out dissipating just as the rush of delivering the news of Claire and her baby did for him. He thinks that there might be something wrong with the both of them. He wonders if anyone else notices. He wonders if it's part of the disease. Diseases do that, shift and mutate all the time.

"Kate?" When she doesn't answer this time, he pulls at the strap of a blood-soaked bag around her shoulder and she lets it fall lazily away from her body. After a quick glance inside the bag he pulls out a puffer and tosses it to Sawyer, "that's the best we can do for now. I'll need to know more about her asthma. But we're leaving."

"I ain't—"

"Claire is dead, there's nothing we can do for her," his fingers circle around Kate's wrist but doesn't pull her away again, which seems odd, "But we can help everyone else. Shannon's having anxiety induced asthma attacks and I'm sure the smell in here can't be helping to clear her breathing. And Kate and Charlie are in shock, her heart rate is off the chart and he's sweating just standing there."

He would make a face at Jack, but the comment reaches him too late for him to show any type of protest. Besides sweat permeates the back of his hoodie and his jeans stick to the skin on the back of his knees.

"There's also the fact that this place has a high possibility of blowing," Art interjects as he ties the knot tighter in the bow of fabric.

Jack stares at Sawyer for a second, the lights blink a few times but neither man does, then finally Sawyer points a finger at the doctor, "You owe us some answers."

"You'll get them as soon as we're settled."

Without another word, Sawyer turns back to Shannon, handing her the puffer, "It's go time Sweet Cheeks," he holds out his hand, "remember to keep the bad leg bent."

"I'll try," she rolls her eyes and hooks her left arm around his neck.

Jack slings the medical supply bag over his shoulder, "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know Kate"

"You're not going to take me back to jail, are you?" Both of her hands catch his as he's walking away.

He thinks it's part of the disease, making them childlike, making them overly emotional and not in control of their senses. But while watches her hands grip the doctors, he can see wrings around her wrists that look like they could have come from handcuffs.

"Of course not," Jack smiles and starts to herd her towards the door. Art said that he got here first other than the Asian woman who was inside when he arrived. So it was Art who broke the automatic doors with a garbage can à la 1980's punk. He thinks it's quite rebellious. Or maybe Art did it just to get to the exposed gas.

"Charlie," Shannon calls him from where she's hopping with Sawyer, "come on."

He nods. He knows. Claire will be left to rot, unburied in some unknown examine room in the A&E of some useless hospital. Her baby is gone. Never going to know its mother. He's never even going to know if it was a boy or a girl. He supposes now it's just a memory. Like 1980's punk or his primary school. And Claire. Claire will never be alive after this point in time, but she'll always be alive a week before now.

So like a good sheep, he follows the rest of the flock until he passes the perpendicular hallway down which Claire's body lies. It's not Claire's anymore, it's just another body not even worth a white sheet. But then he meets eyes with the Asian woman who's finally looking up from across the corridor. When his eyes travel the path that her eyes have been following for the last two hours it leads him to a bloody white sheet covering a body and when he looks back at the woman he knows she's lost someone important too.

"Oy," he moves a few inches closer, "Come on, we're leaving."

She replies in an Asian dialect that he can't recognize so he annunciates, "Lee-Ving. Leaving."

She repeats the same phrase and he's about the just grab her and drag her caveman style when instead he hear the cock of a gun. His first thought and plea is that it's Sawyer playing dictator, but since the sound came from behind him and everyone's a few good feet in front of him he can only imagine that this is what caused Hurley's fate.

A woman perches on the counter, her gun aiming forwards and he bets by the amount of blood covering Kate that she could hit any one of them. Her hair shoots away from her face in ratty chunks and her skin is smudged with dried blood.

"Je vous ai donné le bébé," she speaks muffled French against the butt of the gun and for the first time in his life he's sorry that he failed primary French. "Mais, vous gardez Alex encore. Je veux seulement Alex. Où est Alex?"

"Who the hell is Alex?" Shannon shouts, then realizes the woman won't understand English, "Who. Who. Quoi? Quand? Shit."

"What the hell are—"

"I'm trying to remember my French so we don't all end up taking a blood bath."

Art, not visibly shaken by the sight of a gun pops up behind the French woman like a gopher, "If you fire that gun in here, we're all going to explode. Do you understand that?" He probably assumes that the woman will lay down her arms because she doesn't want explode.

Of course, Art is desperately wrong and the last thing any of them see before they rush to the once automated, now vandalized doors at the A&E's entrance is the French woman in an act of alarm and perhaps impatience, turning the gun on Art.

Pulling the Asian woman with him like she's a piece of carry on luggage he makes it through both sets of doors before a hot rupture comes from behind him and forces him into the air and then flat on the ground. Then for the second time that week, everything is rubble, fire and ash.

* * *

_Next chapter - Boom_


	7. Sharp Shock

_A/N: I'd like to say that this is the chapter I figured I'd never get to write. It was one of the main reasons I started to write this story so it's like a milestone. That being said, I'm über excited to write another particular chapter two or three chapters away. Also, more characters will be added starting next chapter, although they may not be permanent fixtures in the story, they'll pop up a few times. A second also, the next chapter will be the mythical Sawyer chapter. Finally thanks for reading and reviewing and enjoy. _

Live Together, Die Alone

Chapter 7

Sharp Shock

Only one of his feet is clad in his dress shoes. He knows because the very first thing he does when he regains consciousness is wiggle his toes. He forces his chin into his chest while watching the tip of the once white, now sullen sock bow with movement. Without wasting a moment, he sucks in a deep breath testing his lungs and ribs relieved to find that there's not an devastating amount of pain. Then he allows himself five seconds to regroup.

He only gets three. As soon as he closes his eyes, there's a cool slick hand on the side of his face incessantly tapping harder than the rain to get his attention. When he opens his eyes to the fog, there's a contour of someone blocking his view of the drifting smoke against the muted sky.

It's the Asian woman, and although his eyes are open, her hand is still rhythmic on his cheek. Her voice is silent for a moment, only her mouth miming the words gives any indication that she's actually speaking. Then as the ringing in his ears subsides, her voice becomes low both audibly and in cadence but after a few more seconds of struggling her words are finally clear.

He can't understand a single one of them because they're in another language, but the panic in her voice doesn't need translation. He pushes his body back to get away from her hand, and finds his arm wraps awkwardly around a solid chunk of concrete. It's not broken, but the muscle is sore and under the pressure of his weight it buckles.

Sun holds his shoulders keeping him in a sitting position while ranting and pointing. The idea of head injuries preoccupies him and he feels lucky to find no immediate or overwhelming pain and he doesn't feel dizzy or lightheaded. She speaks again nudging his shoulder he stands.

Stumbling to his feet, he's careful not to hit Sun, as she sidesteps him and also takes care to notices the debris that has sharp edges or is still smoldering. Then she's tugging on his jacket and jabbing her finger towards a condense wall of fog. She speaks, and then mimics the action of strangling or choking.

He nods, half-understanding but knowing he has to move swiftly. So he picks his way over the larger pieces of wreckage to a clear path that he follows at a slower pace. His feet kick smaller amounts of debris and the rain eases into a light drizzle that doesn't do anything to make the situation more uncomfortable. It's not even enough water to put out the remaining fires. Behind him over the sound of the crackling fires and popping embers he can hear Sun following him.

Familiar coughing interrupts the mundane sounds and he finally realizes what Sun was trying to tell him. "Shannon?"

He stops walking after he calls out her name so he can hear her response, but it's fruitless because even if she does hear him she's going to have to stop coughing long enough to give him a reply. The only thing that answers him is another fit of coughing and he can't see where Shannon is through the fog.

Sun seems to sense this and with foreign words points to the left with three urgent pokes and a pair of raised eyebrows. With a low grumble from the sky, the clouds lighten for a moment and he notices two parallel cuts on her cheek and one that ripped the top of her buttoned up sweater. There's a good amount of blood, but nothing that classifies as a medical emergency.

After a few quick steps the coughing grows louder and he can see Shannon's form leaning over on all fours suggesting that she attempted to move into a sitting position, but the coughing fit interrupted.

"Shannon," calls as he approaches so he doesn't scare her into a more strenuous attack. She glances up through watery, squinting eyes and almost falls over until he pulls her into a sitting position. "Shannon, where's your puffer."

Her head jerks an answer as her coughs grow more ravenous. Her gasps for air become so harsh that Jack can hear the air ripping at her lungs. She's hot to the touch and when she heaves; her body almost turns concave with the power of it.

"Shannon," he kneels before her, and turns her face towards him, "You need to breathe though your nose okay."

Again she shakes her head at him and a piece of hair plastered to her forehead with sweat and ash falls free.

"Shannon," his voice is harsher, because he's afraid he might not be able to help her, especially if she's not willing to listen to him. "Like this," he shows her again, loudly inhaling through his nose.

She starts to follow his suggestion, her nostrils flaring with the force, but starts to cough while exhaling. A tear falls from her eye clearing a path through the dirt smear on her cheek and she moves to lean over.

"No," his hands hold her bony shoulders in place so she can't move, "Shannon, do it again. I know you can do it."

Her nostrils flare and a wheeze emits from the back of her throat, but she manages to keep her mouth closed. Her body starts to shake as she repeats the action until her chest heaves are finally under what he considers normal.

"See," he tells her, smiling at her accomplishment. In his peripheral he sees Sun smiling as well. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No," her voice is soft and raspy. He knows that it hurts her to talk, so he only thinks of vital questions.

"Where's your inhaler?"

"I," she clears her throat and a pair of new tears fall, "I gave it to Sawyer. For safe keeping." He closes his eyes momentarily at the idiocy of the remark and she speaks in her defence, "I lose them a lot. My brother always kept them be—"

"It's okay," he tells her because he doesn't want her to have another attack caused by anxiety. "Kate got a bag of them." He reaches to his own shoulder, forgetting momentarily what happened.

"Where are they," her eyes are glassy and almost innocent.

Without answering he stands, trying to survey the area for the dark blue bag, but can barely see three steps ahead of him. They need to find that bag, or find Sawyer. Then he strains his flogged memory to remember the others. Charlie and Kate, the last time he saw either of them they were in shock. They could be seriously injured without even realizing it.

"Don't worry," his attempt to comfort the younger girl is lame as he places a limp hand on her shoulder, "I'm going to see if I can find Sawyer and the others. Just stay put until I come back."

"But what if—"

"If you have another attack just do what I said. Breathe through your nose and focus on Sun."

She nods, too fatigued to fight. The thought of explaining how to help Shannon to Sun hinders him for a moment. He could give directions, but he's not sure the woman wouldn't understand. He can only hope that Sun will stay with her while he looks for the others.

The rain is starting up again, making the fog and the smoke swirl into a thicker concentration. He isn't able to recognize things until just before he passes them. A gurney, a row of waiting room seats, and a piece of the wall mural from the children's ward all decorate the ground. It makes him wish that he was at home with Juliet curled up on the couch watching that stupid sitcom that she TIVOed three times a week and eating the spaghetti they always had on Thursdays.

Instead he yells the names of people he hopes are alive. He hopes that Arzt isn't alive, not that he didn't care for the man, but being that close to the explosion probably blew him to pieces.

"Sawyer," he cups his hands around his mouth as he climbs a large piece of concrete that was once probably a piece of foundation. His shoulder is stinging more and the fresh rain falls feather light but without a break.

He remains perched on the edge of the concrete, his shoeless foot gripping the rough edge. The only thing he can see is an overturned black van with the side doors torn off. Calling out their names again, he wonders if he should retreat to Shannon and move her somewhere with fresh air.

As he makes the decision and steps off of the concrete a voice calls, "Doc?"

The voice is faint, but echoes off the hospital's gutted shell. "Sawyer," his voice is louder now as his body spins at three intersections made by the van, the concrete and other wreckage.

The other man beckons again, and Jack makes an intuitive guess, running by the van and what looks like a good chunk of operating room four until the size of the rubble seems to diminish as he moves further away from the hospital. The downside is there is nothing to break up the fog so there's a higher concentration.

Within the flat plain, he spots a figure moving and a few seconds later he reaches the man. Sawyer sits on the ground, there's a streak of blood running from his hair down the side of his face but other than that there's no noticeable injuries. Jack is about to ask him about the inhaler when he notices who Sawyer is attending to.

"The couch landed on her," he points to the green floral patterned loveseat that Ethan donated to the surgeon's lounge when he couldn't sell it at his yard sale. "And she's got a cut under her eyebrow but she ain't talking."

"Kate," when he says her name, she doesn't respond. She sits, her knees bent and her sneakers flat on the ground. Her eyes are blank, staring into the remains.

Her face is covered in blood, most of it is Hurley's, but there's a long gash that runs the length of her eyebrow but half an inch lower. The blood is bright and it threatens to flow right into her eye so digs around in his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it into her brow. If she feels the pain, she doesn't show it. She doesn't even blink.

Sawyer shifts over so that Jack can attend to her injuries. His hand is in his hair, supposedly holding the point of impact. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's in extreme shock," he grips one of her wrists; her skin is ice cold and sticky with sweat and blood. His fingers press tight against the veins underneath so he feels her pulse, but he can't concentrate because it's fast and weak and the rain is falling so hard it's washing the blood off her face.

"How do you fix it?" Sawyer's face skews in comprehension through the rain. He's resting on two feet with his knees bent and his arms hanging over them and keeping good balance.

"I'll take care of Kate," he's already shouldering off his jacket because she's starting to shake, "You need to take Shannon her inhaler." Sawyer raises a questioning eyebrow at his request, "you do still have Shannon's inhaler, don't you?"

The Southerner pulls another face but relents, "Yeah, I got it," a hand reaches back and pulls the inhaler out of his jean pocket. As he twists the object in his palm he adds, "I just don't really remember why."

He grasps Kate by the forearm, and gently directs her arm into the jacket. It's already drenched, but it will keep her warmer. "You hit your head?" he doesn't look at Sawyer while addressing him because he wants to see if Kate will answer the question too. She doesn't.

"Yeah," Sawyer holds a palm to his forehead, "It ain't that bad."

"If you can't remember, you could have a concussion causing retrograde amnesia," he turns his attention to the other man. The rain is removing most of the blood and there's only a small laceration on the crown of his head.

"Maybe you should concentrate on Freckles," he points to Kate obviously uncomfortable with the examination, "I ain't the damsel in distress type."

Sawyer stands from his spot without so much as a waiver. "Wait Sawyer," he holds out three fingers, "How many fingers?"

"Four," Sawyer answers as he takes a few steps.

"That's not right."

Sawyer turns back, a sly grin on his face, "I was counting the one I was giving back to you."

Ignoring the Southerner as he treks off towards Shannon, he turns his attention back to the mute and unresponsive woman in front of him. "Kate," he feels like he's imploring her just to give him some attention, "just look at me."

Minutes pass, the rain drums against a slanted piece of sheet metal a few feet away as neither of them speaks a word. He glances to his watch, wondering how long it's been since he's found her, but hands are frozen on 8:15. The same time that Claire died.

He sighs, covering his mouth with one hand. He wants to check on Shannon and the others and he's not leaving her here. So he stands, water rushing off of the suit pants, the fabric glues to his legs. "Come on Kate," he reaches down and grasps her biceps, and for a minuscule moment, the muscles underneath stretch and tense at the contact.

"Don't take me back," her body is shaking violently, her hands disappear underneath the extra sleeve material and the cut is beginning to make her eye swell.

He has to think a moment before the answer to his question is clear, "You mean the prison?"

"He left me there," she sobs, her tight lips breaking free of their stoic expression.

"The guard?" He bends his knees so he's eye to eye with her and he's so close that he can hear her quick breaths.

"Please," her voice cracks and disappears.

"Were not going back there," he reiterates and presses the blood soaked handkerchief back into her brow, "But we do have to leave."

She flinches from cold, then swallows loudly and nods, "Where?"

"To get Sawyer, Shannon, Sun and hopefully Charlie. Then to a hotel or somewhere to spend the night," he smiles, hoping to calm her, but she doesn't react.

Standing again, he holds out his hand, offering to help her up and the pads of her fingertips tremble as they touch his palm. She stands, wobbling precariously on her feet like a fawn, but after a few steps, and slowing his pace several times they seem to keep a decent speed.

Her words, her unbridled revelation and extreme fear of returning to the prison intrigues him. Not that she's a case in a medical textbook, but the way she talks about the prison, her first words after an hour of silence are about the building where she was abandoned. The shock that was apparent after she saw Hurley shot might not have manifested if it wasn't for the prison. He's beginning to think that something else happened in that prison before he got there.

She walks close to him, her hand compressing the cloth on her head and her free arm crossing her chest. Her hair is in tangles and would be crusty with blood if it weren't for the incessant rain, and he knows within the next day that her eye will be swollen shut.

He's not a psychiatrist. Juliet was after an abrupt job change. He wonders if the two of them ever met, Kate and Juliet. It would give him a believable reason on why when he's with Kate he doesn't think of Juliet. He spent three years of his life with the same woman. Abandoned his parents and moved to Sydney with her so she could change jobs. He went to bed with her every single night for over two and a half years. He doesn't know why she disappeared this morning, or where she went but he forgets about everything that happened to him in his entire life before the moment he saw Kate.

"My head hurts," her declaration blares through the pensive silence. The words are so misplaced that it seems logical they're the first ones she speaks freely.

"You hit it. Does you back hurt?"

She rolls her shoulders, then arches her back without a kink, "Not really."

"A couch landed on you."

"Really?"

"Actually it was a love seat. It's back there," he turns and points to the space where he found her and Sawyer, but the fog is already shrouding the view.

"Jack," her hand on his shoulder turns him around, "You're back is bleeding."

"What?" He looks over his left shoulder and finds that his white dress shirt is bright red. He tries to reach it with a hand, but the gash is at an obscure angle. She reaches out a tentative hand, and lightly touches where his blood permeated his shirt. He flinches away from her, hissing in pain.

"How did you not feel it?" she moves closer and tries to peer down the back of his shirt to get a good look at the injury.

"I don't know," he undoes the top button to loosen the shirt for her, "maybe I was in shock."

"Yeah?" she pulls at the material, easing it away from the wound where it's stuck. "What's that like?"

* * *

_A/N Pt. 2: Don't worry, Charlie is fine. I can't kill them in back-to-back chapters. That's just tacky. Also a strong kudos to anyone who noticed the irony of Sawyer having Shannon's inhaler since originally in Lost Sawyer was thought to have stolen them. Yeah, I'm deep like that._

_Next Chapter - How did our heroes fare after the explosion? Plus Sawyer's big day out and some flirty birdies. Oh and a new person makes a brief but enticing appearance. _


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